


For whom the bell tolls

by NaraMerald



Category: Old Kingdom - Garth Nix
Genre: Abhorsen, Charter, Flutes fail, Necromancy, The Perimeter, The Wall (Old Kingdom), Wyverly, ancelstierre
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-18
Updated: 2015-01-18
Packaged: 2018-03-08 03:53:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 5
Words: 5,772
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3194309
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NaraMerald/pseuds/NaraMerald
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The full moon rises slowly, inexorably into the sky above the Wall and all eyes slip to the flutes. </p><p>From citizens of the Old Kingdom to their Protectors, the Ancelstierran Perimeter guards and the citizens of Wyverly; all fear one moment: when the flutes fail and they realise exactly for whom the bell tolls.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Ancelstierre; The Perimeter

**Ancelstierre; The Perimeter**  
  
_"As all living things must fail, till silence rings me in eternal calm, across a sea of dust."_ Orannis, Abhorsen- Garth Nix  
  
Night was falling, a curtain of soft purple blanketing the horizon and creeping to smother the lingering pink hues out of the sky. At the first crossing with its red and white gates, the guards were finishing hustling a tour group away, more briskly than usual, twitchier than normal.  
When the minibus had finally rolled off, the guards began cleaning and laying out an odd assortment of weapons. The rather old fashioned swords, pikes and bayonets were aged but as well kept as the guns each soldier ignored.  
“Well boys, let’s cross our fingers,” the Lieutenant nicknamed ‘Wolf’ said grimly, thick eyebrows drawing in as he tossed a dark glance towards the wall.  
“But… the flutes haven’t failed in years…” the weedy soldier referred to as “Newbie” in the barracks mentioned somewhat innocently. The other two soldiers, Perimeter regulars, glanced quickly at each, blonde and black hair mirroring identical expressions.  
“It’s the full moon,” Lieutenant Wolf replied as their eyes unwittingly fastened onto the glowing orb of the moon beginning its ascending arc.  
“Let’s hope tonight’s not the night,” Wolf muttered, the other two fervently touching their Charter Marks which lit up briefly. Newbie took a step back, still unused to the Charter Marks and quietly crossing himself in the Christian way. The two exchanged another look, jaws tightening as they turned to face the Wall.

Back another kilometre, another group of soldiers were grimly tying the fastening links of their chainmail. As the last dying rays of the sun began to fade and the stars began to brighten, the soldiers on the second crossing checked and double checked the gate, sealed closed and locked in no less than five places. The study wooden-chainlink combination was always locked down on the day of the full moon until some nights henceforth. As a matter of practical thinking and military paranoia, it usually remained locked down in general. The soldiers hated the foreboding feel of the full moon; even off perimeter duty they could never welcome the lunar switchover. Shivering, one of the semi-experienced soldiers couldn’t help a shudder. He’d seen action, certainly, and he’d been with the garrison long enough that he’d even seen the dead, but Abhorsen’s flutes had held the entire time he’d worked here. Perhaps, upon reflection, they’d been there his entire life; he didn’t really know and he’d barely seen the Abhorsen from a distance a few times. He shivered again, remembering the pale skinned figure with the ink black hair. Despite the shivers and goosebumps on multiple soldiers that their fellows over the garrison and gates politely ignored, the temperature was quite warm, an early end of summer type breeze on the Ancelstierre side.

Further still away from both the first and second gates, at the garrison itself, the soldiers cursed. Despite the warm weather in Ancelstierre, the wind coming across the wall from the Old Kingdom brought soft flurries of snow, which melted quickly upon crossing. The incredibly odd difference in temperature was not what was setting the soldiers on edge; it was the unlucky occurrence of the direction of the wind. It was not unusual for the wind to blow in their direction from the wall but it was not a good omen on the night of the full moon. More soldiers here touched their Charter Marks from time to time, the particularly adept Charter Mages occasionally subtly lighting up for a second.

Corporal Jenkins wanted to sigh but with force of will, held it in and continued to look impassive. Morale was low most full moons especially with the government being less than understanding about the realities of the situation. Like most clashes between governments and military forces, the government, being divorced from the life and death situation on the frontlines, had not allocated the requested funding for more years than most of the soldiers had been at the Garrison. Most of the Garrison’s weapons were well cared for but old; the treasurer not quite grasping the necessity of the particular weaponary requirements at the Perimeter. After all, despite the incursions and routine patrols into the Old Kingdom, the Perimeter hadn’t seen a massacre since Abhorsen Terciel died. Even Jenkins himself hadn’t been there; a mere two soldiers were still on duty since that and he expected that Renciel wouldn’t last much longer; each full moon brought more violent twitches from him and his psych assessments were growing progressively more nerve filled.

Damn Treasury’s refusal to move the Perimeter, Abhorsen Terciel and later Abhorsen Sabriel had solved some of their problems but opened up a whole new can of worms. Without the continued slaughter to remind government of the nightmares the Old Kingdom regularly unleashed, they forgot just how dangerous the dead could be. Jenkins had had to fight a risen soldier, a comrade executed and reanimated by a necromancer. He never, ever wanted to repeat that experience. Again he mentally cursed Treasury’s penny pinching as he looked over the garrison. The men were already in the trenches, lookouts posted evenly with a frustrating mixture of binoculars, Charter marks and technology, half of which was prone to fail depending on the way the wind blew. Apparently, those curst bastards didn't really take into account that in order to save funds, they would forgo saving lives, or perhaps a lowly soldier's life didn't matter to them… It was hard to fathom the politics of someone who had never spent a cold night in fear of their life, in fear of Necromancy. Jenkins shook his head slightly, before giving an approving nod towards anyone looking in the third trench.

Casting his eyes out, he knew it was probably early to be this watchful but just over a third of soldiers on duty were Charter Mages on this rotation. As much as they double staffed around the full moon, the rotation quotas had to be met. They lost more damn men from psychological problems, not to mention deaths, in one bad day at the perimeter than in a month of every other army post in the country combined. That didn’t even take into account personality clashes by superstitious twats who refused to work with Charter Mages.

The moon rose higher and the night blackened, torches springing up around the camp even as power and battery lighting flickered in and out.  
“Turn off the lights,” Jenkins gave the order, knowing the men would just be distracted by the flickering lighting, as one of the men saluted and ran to do so. The light changed, stabilising and acquiring an orange glow as the larger lanterns were lit.  
“Flares are ready sir, positions A and B,” Lieutenant Brady confirmed.  
“Good,” Jenkins took a quiet breath and steeled himself for a full moon shift. At times like this, he half wished he was a Charter Mage, that he could soothe himself touching his forehead like the others. He could see Lieutenant Corporal Torren overseeing the mages and met his eyes briefly, as well as the solemn gaze of one of the few women in the patrol, a talented Charter Mage. Some of the older soldiers remembered the failed bindings of Abhorsen Terciel- although few knew his name. All of the soldiers, from memory or from watching the more experienced soldiers, knew this was the testing time every month… if Abhorsen was dead, come midnight, the flutes would fail and the dead would rise. They would rise, and they would come.

The wind itself continued to blow, sometimes dragging near piles of snow, sometimes appearing to briefly die out and the men continued to glance uneasily at the flutes. Anyone not in the know, indeed, a few new recruits, commented that the flutes were broken. Windy or calm, the flutes refused audible notes and many had called them defective. They played no sound that any at the Perimeter could hear. As Lieutenant Corporal Torren had clarified for him when first posted, the flutes played a song heard only in death, continuing the binding of the Abhorsen Sabriel. Jenkins shuddered to think what a song like that would sound like, but could only imagine it had something to do with the bells the Abhorsen always carried and never removed from the pouches.  
"I've a bad feeling tonight." One of the soldiers murmured darkly, touching the Charter mark on his forehead and causing it to flare up briefly.  
"Don't say it. Ill words bode ill for anyone, mere hours from midnight." Another muttered, equally disheartened. The wind rose again, as if it was a tangible thing reaching out to them from beyond the Perimeter, whipping up leaves as the soldiers checked their watches. They were stopping and starting as the wind rolled over the wall from the Old Kingdom, Jenkins’ giving little abortive jerks of confusion. The wind was beginning to pick up and roll further over them, the barmy Ancelstierre temperature cooling rapidly as the wind continued. Jenkins’ digital watch lost all power and even his analogue watch stopped rather more permanently. He had the quiet wish that Colonel Horsye was on duty tonight instead of him, but put it aside to watch the Perimeter.  
"It begins." A soldier whispered, and one by one they all set down their radios, watches, guns. Anything modern was useless to them now.


	2. Ancelstierre; Wyverly

**Ancelstierre; Wyverly**  
  
_"For everyone and everything, there is a time to die. Some do not know it, or would delay it, but its truth cannot be denied. Not when you look into the stars of the Ninth Gate." - Garth Nix_  
  
Wyverly was not a tourist town for no reason; the ancient looking town was made of stone and wood strong enough to withstand most sieges and the inhabitants seemed to be more serious than those found elsewhere. There were no hotels in Wyverly or Bain, one failed experiment ensured the only inhabitants tended to be those lone families, those strongly attached to family land and those who travelled in the Old Kingdom or dabbled in the Charter. Every few years television channels would show a strangely solemn Ancelstierran child, a youngster from Wyverly or Bain, reciting the creed not to be out after dark. The implications of cults and witchcraft were ignored or rather solidly scorned by the residents but one thing was abundantly clear to Ancelstierrans. Cults, Witchcraft, Aliens, ridiculous lies or not, every few years something seemed to go terribly wrong at the Perimeter.

The conspiracy theorists liked to argue that there was no way the government would throw that much money and that many soldiers at the Perimeter if there was nothing there. Those arguments, unfortunately, tended to be toothless tigers, as few people knew exactly how much money went into the Perimeter. Somewhat unsurprisingly, the soldiers at the gates were extremely unfriendly and mistrustful of outsiders, even curious hippies and conspiracy theorists. It was rare that anyone got to the second gate, let alone past it. And people who went in at places other than the gate… well, those tended to go missing. They never returned, excepting the events of 1998, which no one in Bain spoke of again. Often with amusement, the reporters watched parents of children unfailingly collect their children before dusk, and in disbelief, watched families bar their homes. Some locked their doors with huge pieces of wood, calling them crazy and making signs against evil if the reporters chose to wait the night outside. (This was considerably rarer after the documentary crew were attacked by wild animals in 2000).

All over the town during dusk, curtains swished shut on the night of the full moon.  
“What happens on the night of the full moon, sweetie? Tell the camera.” Reporter Chou encouraged.  
“We have to hide because the monsters come.” The little girl with big, scared eyes related.  
“What monsters?” Chou felt vaguely bad for perpetuating the myth with the poor child. Apparently a question too advanced for a young child.  
“What do you have to do then?”  
“If the sky turns red, we run.” The girl blinked rapidly.  
“Where do you run to?” Chou continued, eager to wrap up the story. The little girl took a breath, clearly trying to remember, before reciting:  
  
“Sky is red watch out for dead.  
Hide, hide, stay alive.  
Run like horses for Abhorsen.  
Use a blade or charter mage.  
Situation dire, find fire.  
Daughter, daughter, running water.  
Son, son, sword not gun.”  
  
The stumbling pronunciation of the weird little poem in a child’s voice always made the children's stories from Bain and Wyverly more entertaining. All the children in the area memorised the clumsy poem, big words and all, which the tourists found especially thrilling. That one year a child from Wyverly had actually rode a horse into Ancelstierre after the massacre made it especially chilling…  
The reporter wrapped up the story there, content to finish, unaware that the creeping winds had distorted the technology during the whole interview and it was unusable. Reporter Chou finished up, before signalling to the photographer to move out. Shivering at the cold winds, they were dismayed to note the car had broken down. Giving the front tire a kick, Chou considered their options, before a door opened across the road, a woman beckoning them over to offer them shelter. They accepted gratefully, unprepared for the sudden weather change.  
  
“You were lucky Old Man Renfield saw you,” the woman named Elizabeth bustled about the kitchen, lighting a small number of personal candles and pointing across the street. Upstairs a lone man sat by the window, carefully peeking out onto the darkening streets. Chou found it vaguely creepy, and wished it wouldn’t be rude to indicate to her photographer to get a snapshot.  
“If you’d knocked on the doors an hour later people probably wouldn’t have let you in,” she added, and Chou laughed. Her laughter trailed off awkwardly into silence as she realised Elizabeth didn’t seem to be joking. Wyverly was strange.  
“Now we’re all headed upstairs. I guess you can get an exclusive,” Elizabeth muttered resignedly, and in vague confusion, Chou took one of the small candles and followed them upstairs. There was one main room with an odd looking bed near the window, and a small bed, obviously for the daughter, against a wall. Chou again shook off the unusual habits.  
“Do you have a husband?” Chou asked curiously, having seen a photo.  
“Yes, he works on the wall,” Elizabeth replied guardedly, and Chou backed off.  
“Daddy’s a Charter Mage!” the child piped up, and Chou’s interest swelled, although a good journalist knew when not to press their sources.  
“Do the lights not work?” Arren, the photographer asked in confusion.  
“Not on a night like this. No, we sit upstairs, and we sit quiet.” Elizabeth began dragging over a giant chest, pulling up the stairs and blocking off the trapdoor. If Chou hadn’t already known the odd habits of those in Wyverly, she would have been more alarmed at the very clear removal of the exit. Even knowing, it still made it uncomfortable. But that wasn’t all the towns near the Perimeter did. The first time she’d seen a small child fighting with a sword in the Bain report she’d been incredulous, but for some reason the government ignored these idiosyncrasies. It was also rather undeniable that Bain and Wyverly were dangerous places to live- if it wasn’t animals it was crazies, tornadoes or soldiers losing it. Every few years there seemed to be a disaster.  
  
“Do we watch the window mummy?” the child, Chou really should have remembered her name, asked.  
“Yes love, we watch.” Across the street she could see some lights flicker as the power apparently gave out as predicted and the silence became oppressive. Her few attempts to break the silence with Arren stuttered and died as Chou felt the atmosphere get to her more and more. Elizabeth sat by the window, staring out towards the wall.  
“What are you watching for?” Chou asked, more out of habit that not knowing.  
“Flares. If the Perimeter is breached… they’ll let off flares,” Elizabeth confirmed. Chou and Arren took spots by the other window, out of curiousity, seeing inhabitants of houses moving upstairs, lighting the odd lamp here and there, but one by one, most lights snuffed out by heavy curtains. They watched as Elizabeth put the child to bed and took up a sword, of all things. Flicking a sidelong glance to her coworker, Chou was relieved to note his only reaction was to discreetly grimace at her while Elizabeth's back was turned, before settling back to the window. It was a while before she realised her watch had stopped, making her hiss in annoyance and then give up. All they could do now was wait.


	3. Old Kingdom; High Bridge

**Old Kingdom; High Bridge**

_"When the dead do walk seek water's run, for this the Dead will always shun. Swift river's best or broadest lake to ward the dead and have and make. If water fails thee, fire's thy friend, if neither guards it will be thy end." Lirael- Garth Nix_

In a village not too far from Belisaere, they stirred, restlessly under her power. Chlorr of the Mask shifted deliberately, her skin white under the bronze mask she could no longer remove, her black hair drifting with the wind. The corrosive scent of free magic curled around her, like a wild thing tamed with chains, always trying to lash out, constantly being reined in and ridden. There was no snow here, as the storm had passed and instead there was only aching cold, dulling minds. That was of no consequence, the dead hands needed only to follow her instructions, not think for themselves. Chlorr shifted slightly again, the fur coat brushing against her bandolier.

Turning a head to view the dead hands, she stroked the bandolier ever so slightly, unsurprised by the creature that bounded up to her, a dark shadow of menace smelling of old blood and burnt clay towering over her.   
"Are they ready?" She hissed, and it almost seemed that smoke curled out of her mouth with the words, accompanied by burst of free magic, practically sizzling on the air.  
The Mordicant nodded once, turning what served as eyes to the lights below, gaze menacing and unnaturally intelligent.

"Attack! And let none raise warning." Chlorr commanded mercilessly, impervious to emotions she once may have had. The dead trudged forward, the Mordicant loping ahead with curious flecks of light, fire rolling down its body like sweat. She did not spare a thought for her current allies- Hedge of course had died, but when Orannis had been defeated she had almost been swept along in the river of death, barely managing to claw her way back into life. And she had been weakened, weakened but not stopped. The dead slid forward, a lurching uneven gait belying their weaknesses in their new bodies. She would have preferred them to have time to adjust to their bodies, but that hadn’t been possible. Regardless, they would be functional. It was but moments before the first house was breached and a slight scream was heard. Chlorr stood straight, a menacing figure in her infamous bronze mask, watching. A light flickered on in one house, curtains opened. Foolish, now she knew there were people there. With a flick of her wrist and a nudge of free magic, she had the Mordicant enter the house, twisting the flesh of her face into a spiteful imitation of a smile as it broke the door.

She drifted closer, until the melee was all around her, dead breaking down doors, as some families tried valiantly to hold against them. In the midst of the screaming, Chlorr of the Mask watched, and laughed, the very nature of the sound acrid, like metal jarring.  
"CHARTER PRESERVE US! ABHORSEN SAVE US!" cried one man, as Chlorr stiffened, enraged at his daring to raise the title Abhorsen from his lips. She blocked out the emotions that title brought and slaughtered his family herself.   
Screams rent the night, parents calling in fear for their children to run, or hugging them, standing in front of them begging Chlorr to have mercy. Chlorr raised her chin and titled her head to the side, as if in gentle curiosity, a fearful thing to witness. There was no mercy in Chlorr, not for them.

“Cahet!” The call of the despicable, trapping Charter tugged at her senses and her attention was drawn to a group of adults. They seemed to be throwing that poison, hacking up her faithful, witless servants while they frantically tried to buy time for children to escape. The tiny things could never hope to outrun the Mordicant, but she couldn’t have them destroying her servants. Pausing to take leisurely aim, she tilted that her head to the side, the bronze mask sliding gently sideways in a terrible parody of empathy and threw out vines of free magic. She sent them with a feeling of deep hatred and enough corrosive free magic to erode and explode the remenants of the Charter.

She took her time with the adults, leisurely. It was bare moments after the last one stopped screaming that Chlorr of the Mask realised her mistake. A loud, abominable clanging rang out over the countryside, loud enough to warn the next town, a bell, a normal but oversized one. Worse still, she could smell smoke and stalked towards the source of the commotion to see a pillar of fire, a signal, visible from a great distance.   
Hissing in displeasure, she took in the scene. The children- the mere children!- had fled, the only survivors to somehow make it out of her net of dead, to their sanctuary. The village had a tiny man made island in the middle of a tributary of the Ratterlin. Her bronze mask impassive as usual, helpfully hiding her rage, she rang her sixth bell, feeling the free magic roll through her creatures. Hands and her Mordicant hastened to her side, as she stared at the frightened children, 3 tending to the fire, one still ringing that infernal bell, another two clutched hugging each other. Indicating the hands, she instructed "Cross", with a breath of steam. After a few awkward, lurching attempts, the Hands were forced to concede defeat. Growling, she moved forward, sensing, testing. She would be able to cross it. A look up to the Mordicant at her side conveyed her silent suggestion, and carefully, the Mordicant walked over the bridge, uncomfortable by the sluggish, near frozen water below, but unhampered. The children cried in fear and retreated behind the fire. Foolish children, if her Mordicant did not kill them, their own fire would.

The Mordicant snagged one of the children and at last the bell stopped ringing, while the children started screaming. One child ran, jumping off of the island and onto the treacherous ice. Three steps, perhaps four and the ice opened up and swallowed the boy whole, with nothing more to be seen after the dark shape thrashed and struggled below the surface. A few seconds passed, and Chlorr of the Mask felt the life snuffed out. Another child was snatched and the fire was knocked, spreading. Another tried to attack the Mordicant, attempting to set it on fire. That one died slowly. The last two sat surrounded by fire, and as the Mordicant looked to Chlorr, with some amusement she instructed it to wait and watch, as the fire consumed the children alive. It was after the screams had died down that Chlorr heard it, faint at first and unobtrusive, which grew to a menacing buzzing in her head when she realised what it was. The bells were ringing across the countryside, as she watched, the countryside lit up with warning. The fires- warning pyres, lit up around the edges of Belisaere, and Chlorr gritted her teeth in rage. The other villages were warned- she had failed.


	4. Old Kingdom; Chasel

**Old Kingdom; Chasel**

_"I was made for Abhorsen to slay those already dead. The Clayr saw me. The Wallmaker made me. Abhorsen wields me so that no Dead my walk in life, for this is not their path." Garth Nix, Old Kingdom Trilogy_

Abhorsen looked up into the night. Hundreds of dead, not simply hands but creatures of the Necromancer she was facing surrounded her, the stench of free magic burning her nostrils. No escape, nothing except the like of power she'd not seen since Orannis. And there she was, a deep gash to the stomach that could prove fatal even if she did survive this barrage of dead. Her body buzzed and she was too numb for a wound like this not to prove dangerous, if not mortal. Abhorsen knew the duty was clear, the action had to be taken. But the ramifications made her sick to her stomach in a way that had nothing to do with her wound.

Was there any other way to do this?

That was the question- was there any other way at all? She had loved ones waiting for her- family and her love. But Abhorsen had a successor. Abhorsen’s task was done and Abhorsen could lie content in death. _She_ did not want to go, but Abhorsen did not choose the path, the path chose Abhorsen. And she was Abhorsen. Even now, as the weight of her actions fell heavy upon her shoulders, somewhere inside, another tension eased at the thought that the fighting would all be over. She took a quick look around, appreciating once more the simple things, the crisp air of the night, the smell of the night, the harsh stench and the corrosive smoke of free magic, the stars glowing pure in the sky above her. This, and more was what she was giving up. She was sacrificing her  _life_.

Abhorsen reached for her bandolier, feeling a build-up of anticipation. The dead did not see well, or they would have made more of an effort to attack her pathetic diamond of protection, the Eastmark fading already. This Necromancer she faced, Sarin, was a relatively new free magic power, and she had been lucky he was so cocky. A more experienced necromancer would know to be wary of the self-sacrifice of the Abhorsen. For the first time in a long time, she thought of her father. At least she had the chance to take them with her all the way, kicking and struggling as they may, to the Ninth Gate. Running her hand over the ebony handle, Abhorsen reached for the seventh and largest of the bells, Astarael, before carefully drawing it out, holding the bell still so it couldn't sound of it's own accord, like so many of the bells would. Silly, perhaps, since she was planning to ring it and after it sounded, nothing much else would matter, but she was Abhorsen, and she would die as Abhorsen, following the way of Abhorsen. Abhorsen would honour the old ways one last time.

Drawing it out, she felt something change, as the Eastmark finally failed, and Sarin smiled, catlike in his pleasure at her helpless position. When he lazily lifted his arm to direct the shadow hands in their attack, she lifted the bell above her head, feet in the casting stance. Her face calm, she had one moment to acknowledge the look of panic on his face, the utter horror, frozen shock, as a perfect picture for the rest of eternity and then she swung her arms. As the sound of Astarael the Sorrowful rung heavily in the night, the waves of dead crumpled before her, souls taking flight from bodies like startled sparrows, pulled into the maelstrom of death and unable to resist the call of the Ninth Gate and True Death. She thought of her family, and all she was giving up, allowing a tear to drip down her porcelain white cheek, already frozen from death's hold on her. Abhorsen watched as Sarin struggled against Astarael and lost, as every living thing within Astarael's radius of sound joined the journey to the Ninth Gate.

Finally, with The Weeper echoing in her ears, Abhorsen fell as if in slow motion, hitting the cold ground with a soft thud. Astarael sounded once more as it fell, before rolling to a stop. It mattered not, for nothing able to hear the call and be affected was living still. Above former Abhorsen Sabriel, the skies opened up and the snow descended, unheeding of the unnerving stillness of the prone body, the eyes that would never open again, the mouth that would never crinkle into a smile again. Soon all that could be seen was the black hair, stark against the white of the snow and then that too was swallowed.

Long live Abhorsen Lirael.


	5. Old Kingdom; Belisaere

_The Five Charters  
Old Kingdom Trilogy- Garth Nix_

_Five Great Charters Knit the Land  
Linked Together, Hand in Hand_

****  
  
Old Kingdom; Belisaere  
 _One in the People who wear the Crown_

Princess Ellimere stopped in front of her subjects, pausing in her sentence.  
"Princess?" One of her advisors reached for her arm, and she simply shook her head, her calm face slowly overcome by grief, her mouth opening in an 'No!' of denial even as the bells began to toll. All who had stood that night against Orannis felt it, and sorrowed.

King Touchstone looked out of the window numbly, having felt the impulse himself, the mirror his own son had given him to talk with Sabriel through, lying smashed into pieces on the floor. He knew in his dreams and in his nightmares, he would never forget that last sight of her, his wife, his Sabriel… his Abhorsen dead amongst the snow, and he turned, sinking to his knees and letting out a roar of grief. Prince Sammeth ran into the room, freezing at the sight of the King on his knees.

"Father… Tell me it isn't true…" Sammeth croaked out, eyes flashing once to the mirror he himself had made that the King might see his wife's face.  
Touchstone remained silent.  
"Tell me it isn't true!" Sammeth cried, fists balled.  
"Doth the walker choose the path, or the path the walker?" Touchstone quoted bitterly.  
Neither of them had ever loved her or hated Abhorsen as much as they did that night.  
  
  


**Old Kingdom; Sindle** _  
Two in the folk, who keep the dead down_

Lirael, former Abhorsen-in-waiting froze in front of the dead she was fighting, hand automatically going to Kibeth to still the clapper as she waited, allowing but one tear to slide down her cheek. She felt the change in death, the minute twinge that told her she was no longer the Abhorsen-in-Waiting. She'd fought already tonight, a minor Necromancer who had attempted to take the town. It was luck that led her to that town, that night, in time to put Dyrim to good use, forcing the weak Necromancer to tell of Chlorr of the Mask, of Sarin, Roux and Marmion's plans. They'd timed an attack together, knowing well that the two Abhorsens couldn't be everywhere at once. To some extent, they'd succeeded. Marmion however, would not. This Lirael could be sure of. Face tightening, she stepped into the spell casting stance, holding the bell and swinging it in a reverse figure eight formation, throwing the dead further into death with a hard satisfaction. No mercy.  
  
 **Ancelstierre; The Perimeter**  
 _Three and Five are Stone and Mortar_

A haunting note of something he couldn’t quite hear made Lieutenant Corporal Torren stiffen abruptly, the Charter mages reacting and going on alert, which set off the other soldiers. He made eye contact with Corporal Jenkins, who seemed to lose colour rapidly but rally, readying the men. They glanced at each other for reassurance and finding none, and merely tightened their tense hold on their bayonets, glancing to the Wall suspiciously  
"Are you feeling what I'm feeling?" one of the soldiers muttered nervously.  
"It isn't normally this… this… unsettling,” another agreed.  
They fell silent, eyes resting on the flutes above them. As per usual, they made no noise and instinctively, the soldiers quietened, eyes straining in the fierce cold.

Minutes later, a slight shuffling noise was heard at the front lines, quickly signalled back through the ranks. Men ran for the flares, readying themselves.

"IDENTIFY YOURSELF TRAVELLER, OR FACE DEATH!" called Lieutenant Corporal Torrens, signalling the soldiers to take aim and the Charter mages to begin their sequencing. He needn't have bothered- from the first moment they'd heard a noise, their bayonets, swords, daggers and arrows had already been aimed there.  
The same queer noise was heard, but a little louder, a little closer.  
"IDENTIFY YOURSELF OR DIE!" He yelled once more, taking aim. A few moments later came the unmistakable sound of a shout, and a sword entering dead flesh.

"DEAD! THE DEAD SIR! WE’RE UNDER ATTA-” A soldier’s call was cut off as he was pulled out of the trenches, gargling as the soldiers saw a grotesque hand protruding from his back. The creature literally dragged the soldier off its own arm and let his body hit the ground with a thump. The Charter Mages ran forward, throwing up protection diamonds and offensive symbols as best they could, protecting their main mage, the only woman strong enough to be able to utter a Master Mark. The quiet hissing sound went unnoticed in the battle and then the night sky bloomed with red as the flares went off, alerting the gates behind them, alerting Wyverly and Bain. There was no time to call for Abhorsen, no time to even wonder if they could.  
The flutes had failed.  
  
 **Old Kingdom; Clayr’s Glacier** _  
Four sees all in Frozen Water_

Sanar and Ryelle bent their heads, eyes closed over the last image of the Perimeter. "What do you see?" The head of the Nine Day Watch asked gently. Ryelle shook her head, annoyed by the inaccuracy of the question.  
"Who do you see?" the older woman tried again. Ryelle shook her head to the negative, frustrated, trying to get the last pieces of the vision to fall into place. Something important had happened, something only she and Sanar had seen of all the Clayr.  
"The answer is death." Sanar began.  
"I don't understand…" The Clayr looked to the twins.  
"And the question…" Ryelle trailed off.  
 _Sabriel.  
_ "For whom the bell tolls?" They both intoned, before turning back to their ice, heads lowered in remembrance.

" **Doth the Walker choose the Path, or the Path the Walker?** "  _The Book of the Dead, Sabriel- Garth Nix_

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Updated from a previous version which is still on FF.net


End file.
